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There is a god wading in the sea

who wraps himself in storms and gull feathers

and scars the horizon with a broken mast.

 

Splinters ebb between scales and drift 

amidst fish eyes and fishermen’s ribs

sunk by the wake of his body. 

 

He hears                  you, rowing,

gutting the water with your oars.

 

Salt burns your lungs and

your arms are unsteady;

                                still, you row. 

 

He breathes in the cut of your bow and swallows 

the discordious hymn of wood on waves.

 

You sing and he drowns himself.

 

In a gulp, the world is dark and unsplit.

 

The sky bleeds pearls over calm seas

at night. Rowing, 

                               still, you live.